


To Rise Again From Ruin

by xbedhead



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU-canon, Can we just forget that a helicopter flew into the house, Gen, I needed some father-son bonding, backstory because I neeeed it, because that would make things a lot easier, hurt/comfort (if you squint), so I wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events at Skyfall, Bond decides to return to his old home and help his aging caretaker return it to its former glory. In the process, he may just rebuild himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Because I told them - wait, hello? Can you - no, Q, I'm on leave. No, I told Eve I - _shit_." He pulled the mobile away from his ear, banged it against his palm for good measure. "Hello?"

"Might as well throw it in the bog," Kincaide groused as he went back to work with the rake.

Bond took a look at the phone, shrugged, and did just that.

-*-

His exhale was deep as he unfolded himself onto his bedroll. Every part of him ached - his back was starting to tighten up on him, his right shoulder and arm tingled, numb with exhaustion, his eyes were dry and red from the dust and residual ash being stirred up.

He smiled. Then he slept, dreamless and sound.

-*-

Kincaide was up before him, which was typical these days. As he slipped on his work shirt and tightened up the laces on his boots, he supposed it was fitting - he'd never been able to pull himself out of bed as a child; the old man had roused him every morning, sometimes with a gentle hand through his hair, sometimes with a booming shout from the doorway (on Saturdays when he had punishment, in particular).

He stumbled down the stairwell and into the caretaker's cellar kitchen where the scent of potato scones rushed over him. There was a kettle on the propane stovetop and two mugs steaming on the kitchen table. The clink and clatter of stainless steel on iron interrupted the relative peace of the morning.

"I s'ppose I get what I pay for with you," the old man grumbled over his shoulder.

Bond took the jab in stride and heaped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "I thought you kept me around for the company."

"Hmph."

Bond took his seat and a pair of potato cakes were deposited on the plate before him.

"Porridge?"

"No, thank you," he mumbled around a mouthful of scone.

The caretaker spooned out his own helping and sat down across from his former charge. They ate in silence for several minutes, both turning to look when a Marsh Warbler landed on the windowsill above the sink.

"Haven't seen one of those 'round here in years," Kincaide mused before scraping the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth. "Prodigal son, prodigal bird."

"We're a team, we are. Where were you last month?" James asked the bird in jest as he rose to put his plate and cup into the sink. He started in on the dishes, but Kincaide coughed and tossed him a look that screamed "don't you dare." He sighed, nearly rolling his eyes. "You wiped my arse for more than ten years, the least you can let me do is - "

"And it'll be a great many more years before I let you wipe mine, James Bond," Kincaide boomed as he elbowed his way to the front of the sink and started on the dishes. When the younger man made no move to leave, he frowned and tossed his chin toward the front door. "Get on with it. Got a lot to do today."

The old man wasn't lying. Nearly a week in and they hadn't even scratched the surface of the damage done to the old estate. There had been charred furniture to haul out, tapestries to sort (some on the eastern side of the house had been left untouched and, for some odd reason he didn't care to analyze, Bond was reluctant to part with them), floors to scrub. They were just now beginning to see the granite beneath the blackened layers of soot and smoke.

No deeds had been turned over yet, no papers signed. The prospective buyers took one look at the ruined remains and said "No, thank you." 

It was just as well, with Bond not being dead and all.

-*-

"She did _not_ ," he argued with a grin. 

"So did your father."

"Now I know you're full of shit. They would've never said that about me."

"They _did_ ," the old man insisted, laughing so hard it turned into a cough. "' _Would've made a lovely little girl_ ," he recounted.

As he wiped his eyes, Kincaide gave Bond another smile, the edges of his beard lifting with his lips. His smile darkened, like he was remembering something beautiful, yet painful. "You'd never talk about them. _After_. I tried, but..."

"I was angry," he explained simply, honestly, not feeling in the slightest bit self-conscious because Kincaide _knew_ , he knew everything. He took a long swallow of Scotch, one of the few items from his father's study that survived the fire. "Silly as it was... _is_ ," he corrected himself quietly.

Everything was moving along smoothly - he had done well in primary school, was a top-notch footballer and there were plans to send him to London for further schooling. An only child, he'd been on the receiving end of all his mother's affection and the majority of his father's attention when it could be spared from the stocks he was constantly observing. He'd rebelled against the piano but learned French and how to balance a cheque book, could shoot a dove at fifty paces. By all accounts he was a practical and well-rounded boy.

And then the accident happened, warped the axis of his fragile world.

He could've studied law, history, maybe become a professor in Edinburgh. Of course, he would've gone the Royal Navy route, as was custom for men in his family, but after his four years were up, he would've finished schooling - 'made something of himself,' as his Literature teacher used to threaten him with.

But his Aunt Aileen had been given custody of him, sent him off to boarding school in _Plymouth_ just so she didn't have to deal with the emotions of a eleven-year-old who'd had his life shattered. He hadn't seen Kincaide again until he was twenty, but by then the damage had been done. Emancipation had been granted at seventeen, but he'd been in the Navy a year by then, pointed on a new path he had single-mindedly pursued until he'd pulled the trigger on Dryden nearly seven years ago.

"They would've done anything they could for you, James."

It was a bit unnecessary, but he took the comment in stride, certain of its intention. "I know," he said quietly, catching Kincaide's eyes, then insisting, "I _know_."

He stared into his Scotch and finished the last finger. Kincaide's image was blurry through the base of his tumbler.

_I know._

-*-


	2. Chapter 2

"Kincaide, old man - I _thought_ that was you!"

"Fazel?"

Bond peeked around the stairwell he'd parked himself into that morning in time to see Kincaide drop his scrub brush into the basin of bleach water and shuffle toward the expansive entrance. An older man, one he thought he might recognize, stood in the empty space and took a look inside. Both men hugged one another with a heavy clap on the back.

"Heard what happened in town - hadta come out an' take a look for m'self."

Kincaide shook his head solemnly as he moved back. "Damn shame, it is."

Fazel removed his hat and stepped inside, walking carefully as if the rafters would fall down on top of him. He looked up at the expansive ceilings and craned his neck to see down the main corridor. "Why didn't ya just... _hire_ somebody to do all this? I know a coupla lads in town would've been out here in a jiff, good price, too."

Kincaide gave him a shrug and looked over the main hall, in all of its glorious ruin. "Didn't seem right, is all - havin' strangers muckin' about the place."

Bond twisted on his heels and settled against the wall, unable to keep the spy at bay, as Fazel ran his hand along the charred granite and examined his black fingertips. "How'd it start, do ya reckon'?"

"Best we can tell, one of the propane tanks blew - there was a stock of them in the kitchen. Set the place sky high."

"Saw the Procurator out here," Fazel intimated.

Kincaide cleared his throat and delivered the story he and Bond had worked through. "Prob'ly some tinkers, came to settle in the place as I was gone for a few weeks after the auction. Musta...left something on, lit something wrong, I don't know. Tragic."

Fazel gave a grunt of agreement, then asked suddenly, "Speakin' of tragedy - how in the hell did this work out exactly? I thought the young Bond had passed, s'why they sold off the place to begin with."

"Oh, _James_ \- James is still alive. Got some of their wires crossed down in London - coulda been a real fiasco, but it was sorted in time."

Fazel looked as if he wanted more of an explanation, but Kincaide was of no inclination to give it to him, Bond could tell that by the set of his shoulders. 

"He around? The boy - James, is it?"

"Oh, he's hardly a boy now. E's in and out, taking some time from work to - "

At that, Bond stood and silently moved up the stone stairwell. He had no desire to shake hands with nosy neighbors and pretend as if he remembered them. Nothing could be gained by anything they had to say, especially if it delved into what it inevitably would - his parents. Condolences given five - now thirty - years later were of no use to anyone. His parents were great people, a blow still felt in the small community - all nice and well, thank you, he barely remembered them.

If he had stopped, he might've found the irony in his actions - it was exactly what he'd done when he'd come home for a two week holiday before joining the Navy. He'd left Kincaide to handle the well-wishers - good friends of his mother's, school mates of his father's - who'd stopped by when they heard their dear son had returned. 

Someone like Tanner may have called it 'emotionally stunted.'

He thought 'practical' more fitting.

-*-

"It's your move."

Kincaide made a show of looking around the room, empty save for him and Bond. "Is it now?"

Bond's mouth twisted up as he settled into the high-backed chair by the fireplace and nursed his scotch.

"This is a game of patience, _precision_ , James," Kincaide advised, his thick and calloused fingers inching his rook forward three spaces.

"I have an abundance of precision," he commented dryly as he quickly swapped his black knight with Kincaide's white bishop. "My patience, however, is often found to be lacking."

He watched Kincaide deliberate over which pawn to sacrifice and sucked the warm liquor from his teeth. 

His shoulders had begun to loosen over the last few days, a knot he hadn't known existed, one he couldn't remember living without, had unfurled. He relaxed into a rhythm - sleeping at night, when he was actually tired, waking at dawn to eat and put eight hours in before they started to lose daylight. There was a strange sort of comfort in that rhythm, like some long-forgotten song that came back to him a verse, a bridge, then the chorus. 

This was how normal people lived.

And while he didn't delude himself - he'd never be 'normal people' again, not after what he'd seen, what he'd done (in fact, he's not sure he's _ever_ been 'normal people') - the notion was...nice. A welcome respite from the blood.

Sometimes in the night, he'd wake up panting, struggling for the life-saving air that had nearly eluded him after his emersion. He'd hold his hands up to the moonlight and they shone black, slick with that same blood - M's blood. He knew Kincaide had probably heard him on more than one occasion, but he had the good graces not to ask him about it. The old man's way of fixing things was simple - food, a stiff drink and a box on the ears if he received too much lip.

It was everything Bond needed.

-*-

In the last three days as many people had 'stopped by.' Suddenly the stone fortress who'd sat solitary by the sea was a veritable roadside attraction. These people, however, had chosen to arrive via helicopter.

"What are you doing here?" Bond hissed, clenching a mallet in his fist as he cast a glance over his shoulder. Kincaide was watching, to be sure, but he didn't know what the man could hear, so he took the young man before him by the elbow and led him away from the front of the house.

Q stuffed both hands into the pockets of his trousers and allowed himself to be led. "I've come to fetch you."

Bond stopped in his tracks. " _Fetch_ me?"

"I would've called, but," Q excused, pausing to pull a tablet from his pocket. He tapped the screen a few times, glancing across the desolate landscape, while explaining, "Your mobile seems to be...somewhere over...there, in that marsh, if I had to guess, judging by the depth below sea level and temperatures last recorded."

"I'm on leave," Bond stated, voice hard. 

"England needs you."

Bond grinned, his eyes cold as he gestured to the land surrounding them. He colored his words with the little brogue that he remembered. "I'm a Scotsman, in case you haven't noticed."

"You're no more Scotsman than Mel Gibson, Bond."

Bond ignored the remark, for it was mostly true, and argued, "I've taken two weeks vacation in twelve years, Q. If you factor in sick leave" - and he waggled his scraped elbow at the quartermaster for effect - "let's see, that's..." 

He trailed off, mumbling his calculations until the quartermaster interrupted, annoyed, with, "Thirty-nine weeks."

"Did you add the four bonus weeks for my two years over ten?"

"Yes."

Bond made a show of looking at his watch - which told him absolutely nothing as it was analogue and the date function stopped working after he'd taken that icy dip. "Then by my calculations, I still have thirty-seven weeks and two days remaining."

"Are you seriously planning on taking _all_ of them? At once?"

"Why are you _here_ , Q?"

The younger man sighed, resignation in his tone when he explained, "A hacker from Iceland, Baldvin Jonsson, was tracked to an IP address in Glasgow."

Bond crossed his arms, leaving the hammer to dangle by his ribcage. "So far, this is your department. Go on."

"He's wanted for several dozen international crimes, not the least of which was resetting our personnel databases last year with the names of all the footballers in the Europa League. We have his exact location, he's being surveilled now, and he's still trying to access MI-6 servers. I've set up several road blocks to keep him busy, but..."

Bond lifted his eyebrows, prompting him to continue.

"He's good," Q admitted, his reluctance heavy. "Even if he doesn't get in now, he'll make another attempt and we have no idea what he's after. We have reason to believe he's been contracted by some facet of the Syrian regime."

"What makes you say that?"

Q arched an eyebrow. "The three very large Syrian bodyguards he has around him at all times. Moneypenny is leading the tail and we're awaiting your presence to move forward."

"You need a trigger man," Bond surmised, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

"Time is of the essence."

Bond continued his soliloquy, unfazed. "A blunt instrument of force to protect your microchip kingdom."

Q rolled his eyes. "I _flew_ here, 007."

Bond flashed him a _look_ before glancing over his shoulder. Kincaide was busy somewhere inside the house and they were a good twenty meters away. As quiet as it was out there, between the old age and the hair sprouting from his ears, he most likely hadn't heard anything. Exhaling loudly and trying to tamp down the slight rise of what one might call 'giddiness' (though he would never label it such) within him, Bond considered things a moment before asking, "Did you bring me any presents?"

-*-*-*-


	3. Chapter 3

"Hold on, hold on," Kincaide soothed as he eased Bond out of his shirt. "Let me see."

Bond hissed as he shrugged off his button down and bit the inside of his cheek when the cloth caught in the deep gash across his shoulder blade.

"Needs stitches," the old man observed. "Why didn't ya stay in town?"

Bond could feel his breath, hot against his skin, and his fingers, warm but impersonal as they explored the area around the wound. "Don't like hospitals," he grunted, trying to keep his voice steady, keep the pain out. "A strip of adhesive down the middle should work. Do you have any?" he asked over his shoulder, trying to get a better look. 

"I'm sure I have something," Kincaide muttered as he moved to the washbasin next to the wardrobe. He poured out a measure of water and plopped a bar of soap into the bowl as well. Then he went to rummaging through the small shelf, pulling out tape and gauze and whatever unguent he had remaining from the rations his mother had kept during The War. Unable to stay on his feet, Bond sat stiffly on the edge of Kincaide’s bed, favoring his left side to avoid the bruise blossoming on the back of his thigh. 

The Syrians hadn’t been joking. Whatever they were being paid was decent enough to risk forfeiting their lives – which they all had, in spectacular fashion. Not much of the coffee shop was left, Bond imagined. He wouldn’t know – the fight had ended up in the streets and they’d romped their way down to the wharfs where he’d thought for sure his last breath was to be a mouthful of the Clyde.

And then Moneypenny arrived, gun in hand, eager to take another shot, make up for the last wayward bullet. She did and now here he was, in damp clothes, trying to ignore the throbbing in his lower back and the sharp stab of what was very likely a pair of broken ribs. 

They’d stopped Jonsson in time; the clean-up team was already at work on damage control.

Everything was right in the world.

Except it wasn’t.

He’d refused Q’s insistence that he be taken back to London to be properly cared for by MI6 doctors. He said he’d rather be at home – which, apparently, was now a stone cavern of old memories and carbon. 

His heart was racing and shoulders drawing up, tight like they had been and he positively ached for that release he’d been granted. But it was gone now.

_Fuck._

He should’ve stayed in town, disappeared for a few days until the swelling went down and the scabs sloughed off. Trouble followed him like a disease and he’d forever get sucked back into this life he’d forged for himself, something he _thought_ he’d always wanted. Something he wasn’t sure he could handle any longer, not since Moneypenny’s bullet, since Silva, since _M_.

And now this old man would pay for it, he was sure. He’d skirted it once – Bond didn’t know if his luck could hold out a second time.

His eyes raced between the armchair overflowing with bed linens and the closed cupboard he knew held all of Kincaide's earthly belongings as he racked his mind to think of answers for the inevitable questions. 

_What do you do for a living? How many people have you killed? How did this happen?_

_What the hell had he been thinking, coming back here?_

The more recent injuries – a failed mugging in town? Gunshot to his chest - a robbery attempt he got caught in the middle? Knife wounds - the same robbery? The cuts and scrapes he'd gotten during the siege of Skyfall had healed over a light red, fresh and new. The lingering white scars from countless beatings would shine, slick in the light of the half-dozen candles the old man had lit earlier in the evening.

No matter what he said, he knew it wouldn’t stick. It was only a matter of how hard the old man would push, how much he –

"Who hurt you?"

The question jolted him from his stupor and he had to let his brain rewind to interpret the question. It doesn't make any sense.

He must've been staring dumbly up at Kincaide because the old man leaned closer and repeated slowly, "Who hurt you, James? You don't have to tell me all of it - I know you're into some sort of… _government_ work. People don't get chased down by helicopters workin’ at Tesco."

His mouth worked itself open, but words failed to escape. Who hurt him? This time? The last time? The time before that? If the look in Kincaide’s eyes hadn’t been so bloody serious, he very well may have laughed. So many ways to answer, but only one that would keep them both safe. 

“Occupational hazard,” he settled on, speaking quietly, corner of his mouth quirking up.

The old man sat back, looking put off by what had been said. A wall had gone up and Kincaide knew he couldn’t scale it. So he went back to his gauze and antiseptic, doctoring the scrapes and cuts. He ran a line of Super Glue down the gash and held the skin together while it dried. He stoked the fire while Bond clumsily stripped from his wet clothes and bundled up in a thermal one-piece. Neither man said anything.

The room was warm, comfortable, and Bond was floating on a haze of two painkillers he’d fished from the bottom of his duffel bag. The last thing he saw was Kincaide loading the hunting rifle and propping it next to the stand by his bed.

***

Two days later, he was gone.

Kincaide awoke, early as he always did, and started the fire on the stove. He didn’t notice the empty pallet beside the bed – maybe James had risen to take a walk, to fetch some water for the day’s use.

He was cracking eggs for a massive omelet when he saw the note on the table. The scripted ‘K’ on the front was lovely, flowing, like Monique’s had been.

_I’ve spoken with the lads in town – they’ll be around this morning. Thanks for the respite, but it’s time for me to go.  
\- JB_

He ran his calloused fingers along the edge of the small card. It was hard, real beneath the pad of his thumb. 

He kept up with the onions, cutting through the sting as his eyes watered up. The eggs ended up a little crispy around the edges, just the way James liked them. And as he sat at the empty table and peered through the kitchen window, he saw that the Marsh Warbler was gone and the lads were coming up the drive.

/FIN

**Author's Note:**

> This was unbeta'd and my first fic in this fandom. The first chapter is short as I'm still trying to get a feel for things. And how ridiculously excited am I to arrive into a fandom from the beginning?! I've watched this category grow from a few to several hundred stories in a matter of weeks - so cool to see that, and so many great stories are floating around out there (which I will get feedback to ASAP).
> 
> I decided to go with a more gen approach. I'd like to include a few other folks from MI6 in subsequent chapters, but for now, it's just Bond and his old man. Con-crit welcomed. It should be noted I'm an American and while I tried to keep things as authentic as possible, I also erred on the side of caution (I hope) when using the random 'bloody' and 'bollocks.' No foul intended, my cousins from across the pond.


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